Johnlock: A Tragedy
by Ctenophore.D
Summary: The course of true love never did run smooth. In fact, in this case, it's a tragedy. Separate Johnlock oneshots about how this relationship turns out to be a tear-jerking story.
1. Conversation

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own any people, places or things in these fics. All I own are the words :-)**

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1 Conversation

"Sherlock. My leg's hurting again. The old wound from Afghanistan, you know. But it's okay, a cuppa tea will do the trick." John patted down his white hair and gazed into Sherlock's smiling blue-green eyes, curving his lips as he saw the detective's thin-lipped smile, the smile-wrinkles around his eyes creasing as he smiled.

"Sherlock, the Asda check-out really doesn't agree with me, you know? It took me half an hour to buy the milk today."

"Sherlock, I saw Greg outside in the park today. He's doing well, you know? His wife and his children are all doing nice."

"Sherlock, I went to see Mrs. Hudson's grave. Somebody put flowers on it. How nice of him, isn't it?"

"Sherlock."

"Sherlock…"

"Sherlock…?"

"Sherlock, may I kiss you goodnight?"

With trembling weathered hands John Watson brought the picture of his smiling long-lost love to his lips and kissed the icy frame. "Good night, Sherlock."

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 **Ohhhkayyyy... I know this one's a bit short, but there'll be longer ones I promise :-)**

 **Please be lenient about grammar mistakes 'cause I'm not a native speaker and neither is my computer :-(**

 **My first published fanfic please please please don't kill me for making Johnlock a tragedy! I'm just feeling super Shakespearian and un-fluffy!**

 **Read and review please! -Ctenophore.D**


	2. The Bullet

2 The Bullet

John did not see the bullet explode with a boom out of the handgun in the criminal's hand, but he felt it. He felt it fly toward a destination near him, one John couldn't possibly let it even touch. He felt the panic rising in his body, and he knew he had a decision to make. He felt the few hundred meters between he and the bullet get shorter and shorter. He knew if he didn't act now, he wouldn't have the time. He only had one choice.

Sherlock did not sense the bullet explode with a boom out of the handgun in the criminal's hand. Yet he saw John let out a desperate howl and throw himself in front of Sherlock. He saw the impact as the bullet pierced into John Watson's heart and the blood that gushed out. He saw the figure in front of him double backwards and land with a thud onto the ground. He saw the pain that racked the beautiful face of the man lying at his feet, yet he did not see surprise. He saw the life of the man he loved silently slip away with a tiny smile on his face. He saw his own thin hands shake the limp lifeless body of the now oh-so-small figure, the warm tears that dripped onto the ground aimlessly that must have been from his own eyes.

He saw the coffin lowered into the cold ground, the golden letters that inscribed the beautiful name "John H. Watson" on the cold obsidian tombstone. He saw the crowd take off their hats and bow their heads in respect, mourning yet not feeling. He saw the black-and-white pictures of the warmly smiling face be hung onto the wall. And he saw the once-great heart of the man, the man that meant the whole world to him.

John Watson.

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 **This one didn't seem as touching as it did when I wrote it out :-(**

 **R &R anyways plz and thx! -Ctenophore.D**


	3. Waltz for John and Mary

3 Waltz for John and Mary

Pale fingers danced on the mahogany instrument, humming a beautiful melody as string and bow collided smoothly. Abruptly the music stopped, and Sherlock picked up a pen to draw down another note on the paper, muttering under his breath. His chest hurt. He wished he knew why.

Sherlock picked up the piece of paper with the serenade written out. He read it carefully, playing each note in his mind with care. Folding it in his slim fingers, he slid it into an envelope and printed out the letters slowly.

Sherlock hated the words he wrote. _Waltz._ He wanted to stop right here, to just name the melody _Waltz_ and get it over with, to not have to play to the song and feel his heart being ripped apart.

 _For_. Sherlock's lips formed a tiny sad smile. He wrote a waltz for somebody, not out of the kindness of his heart, but out of his sense of duty. He wished he could scribble out the word and forget the tune right then and there. But he couldn't. The dull ache in his chest grew.

Sherlock slowly printed the next word: _John._ It brought him little satisfaction. He lengthened the _J_ and curled the _h_ , like a little kid just learning how to write and was determined to write the prettiest word in the best font he could manage, but the words he was going to add filled him with dread. He scrawled on the _n_ and moved on, covering the most beautiful name with his left hand. He couldn't look at it without feeling a lump rise in his throat.

 _And_. The word seemed to jolt Sherlock back to reality. John and somebody else. How could John's name sound better beside anything but _Sherlock_? John and Sherlock. Sherlock and John. John and…

 _Mary._ Sherlock printed each letter numbly, the name burning like fire in his heart. Of course. _John and Mary._ Two simple, classical, popular four-letter names together. _What could sound better?_ Sherlock asked himself bitterly. _What kind of name is Sherlock, anyway?_

Finally, the detective straightened and glanced at his handiwork, his multicolored eyes full of melancholy and grief. _Waltz for John and Mary._ This was the song he had to play on the wedding he dreaded was coming along, the song he had to play with his numb fingers as his heart curled up to die inside him, the song that would show him that he was nothing but a lonely psychopath.

Sherlock laughed maniacally. _Waltz for John and Mary._ Of course. _Who can love a psychopath?_ The pain that was dull in his heart grew, growing until it pierced him, blurring his vision, shortening his breaths, racking his body. In a trance, Sherlock picked up his violin and began to play the same melody, first crazily fast, then slower and slower, finally dropping the beautiful instrument with a _thud_ as the tide of pain washed in. The once lovely serenade was now a moan of grief, a scream of pain. It pleaded for mercy, for release, for love. The pain was overwhelming. The pain. _The pain._

"John." He whispered, one final attempt to reach out to the most beautiful angel he could never have. "John…"

Nobody heard it.

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 **This felt nice when I first wrote it out, but now it just makes me look sadistic :-(**

 **I really enjoyed writing this tho!**

 **R &R plz! -Ctenophore.D**


	4. The Angel

4 The Angel

Sherlock knew he was dead. He knew he was in heaven. He knew because he could see the angel's honey-blond swirls through the mist of tears of pain. He knew because he could hear the angel's low sobbing through the ringing in his ears.

He could hear the angel crying: a low, heartbreaking sound. He felt the angel's soft hand clasp his tightly. He heard the angel plead, from between sobs: "Please don't leave, Sherlock! Please! We're going to heal you; you hear? Stay with me, Sherlock!"

Sherlock squinted in the angel's direction dizzily. The pain made it hard to process his words. "What do you mean? I'm not going anywhere." He managed.

The angel sobbed, heartbroken and powerless. He shouldn't cry, it's wrong, he should be happy. "Be… happy," Sherlock insisted woozily through the pain that was attempting to take him away.

"Sherlock, stay!" The angel pleaded, squeezing Sherlock's hand tightly, fingers running through his black curls. "Stay with me…"

Sherlock struggled to open his eyes wide. He studied the angel through a haze shrouding his eyes. He looked directly into the angel's desperate blue eyes and managed one last word.

"John."

Then the chaos washed him away, and Sherlock knew nothing more.

* * *

 **First I wanna thank EVERYONE'S reviews! Already got four reviews and one fav during the past 24 hrs! THX!**

 **So this chapter is an inspiration of a chapter from Twilight if anyone's read it :-) the one where Bella was bitten by James and** **half-conscious and saw Edward, for any of you who has read it [so maybe a disclaimer to Stephenie Meyer too?] But I didn't really like how everything worked out in the saga so I gave my fav chapter a sad ending :-)**

 **Note that I'm just typing randomly now :-) I won a quarter final and an outstanding speaker in the debate last weekend but all I was thinking about was how to make Johnlock more sad...**

 **R &R, plz & thx! -Ctenophore.D**


	5. Confessions

5 Confessions

I'm sorry, John.

I looked you up my phone before I met you; Mike told me all about you. I knew you had military background, you were an army doctor, you had a psychosomatic limp, you had a lesbian sister. I even faked a slipup. I knew.

I hired the cabbie, I hired Zhi Zhu, I hired Moriarty. I made them all up and pretended to solve every case. Jim Moriarty really is just Richard Brooks, he's a pawn of mine. Because I'm a psychopath, you know? I made up the whole _consulting_ business. What even is a high-functioning sociopath? I did it all.

I'm the liar; I'm the psychopath; I'm the freak. You were a fool to trust me, to stand by me all the time. It made me guilty, lying to you every time. But I did it, cause I'm a psychopath, remember?

I did it all. I lied to you, invented the entire fictitious world you've been living in the last two years. I let you believe I was a genius detective. I let you believe you were leading an exciting life with a trustworthy friend. I let you believe I actually cared for you.

I did care.

I still do.

I'm sorry.

Goodbye.

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 **This one's sort of short too tho it's an expansion to Sherlock's note from the fall :-(**

 **And for those of u who forgot: Zhi Zhu is the Chinese dude who climbed walls and killed people and sprayed graffiti. Not necessarily in that order. I remember 'cause I'm Chinese.**

 **Anyways, R &R! Ur reviews mean so much to me! Plz & thx! -Ctenophore.D**

 **P.S. Plz give me some ideas to write :-( Got two more in docs and that's all :-( Please please give me more inspirations in the reviews!**


	6. Nightmare

6 Nightmare

John woke up screaming.

Plagued by the same nightmare for so many nights, John thought he would get over it; but the horror was raw in his heart every time, like an old wound reopening again and again.

 _He was gazing up at the top of St. Bartholomew's Hospital with his phone in his hand. There, black coat flapping, black curls trembling, stood the tall thin figure that always stood tall in John's heart. Sherlock._

 _"_ _Goodbye John." His voice, tinged with melancholy, spoke metallically from the phone into John's ear. John could hear his voice catch. But no, that couldn't be true. Sherlock has no emotions except for disdain and ecstasy. This is a play, a play to solve a case. Sherlock could not feel sad about anything. He was being used as an experiment again. His emotions were being toyed and that was it. John desperately tried to convince himself these facts he repeated again and again under his breath._

 _But he couldn't. Sherlock was going to fall. John knew that with dreadful certainty. He couldn't see how even a genius could work their way out of a suicide._

 _His heart was pounding; his throat was dry. "No!" John tried to scream, but no sound came out. He could only watch in absolute horror as Sherlock tossed his cell phone aside, then lurch forwards into a free fall._

Then John would wake, screaming. He would sob quiet sobs as he called listlessly for Sherlock's presence, for Sherlock to come thudding up the stairs as he asked what was wrong in his slightly annoyed voice. For Sherlock to turn on the warm yellowish lights and comfort him awkwardly that he was here and everything was okay, just like comforting a child. For Sherlock to dry his tears, tuck him in like a little kid, wish him good night and switch the lights off. He would sob quietly, until Sherlock came. Then everything would be all right, and he would go to sleep with a smile on his face and blissfulness in his heart.

But Sherlock never came.

Sherlock fell.

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 **So finally my fav fic! I cried writing this and cried reading it again :-(**

 **The** **inspiration actually came from me dreaming I failed my math test and woke to find that I actually did LOL**

 **Enjoy, and remember to R &R! -Ctenophore.D**


	7. Amnesia

7 Amnesia

John did not know where he was. He did not know what he was supposed to be doing. He did not know his own last name.

John has amnesia.

That's all he knew. John knew his mind should not be so empty. He knew he should know his own _name_. But he didn't. He knew he must've had amnesia.

He sat up uncomfortably on the armchair he woke up on and gazed around the apartment he was in.

The entire place was littered with pieces of paper. The kitchen was full of lab supplies and some dirty dishes. The walls had bullet holes and a graffiti smiley face on it. The walls were tacked with articles and maps. There was an armchair opposite to him. He wondered who should occupy it.

The door creaked open and a tall, thin man with black curls stepped in. John tried to decide what color his eyes were. In the sunlight, they looked green, but if he shifted that way, they looked sapphire blue. John was sure he knew this man, but he couldn't place who he was. Friend? Colleague? Neighbor? John was sure he knew him better than that.

The man studied John with his blue-green eyes. John tried to read the emotions in them, but he couldn't. It seemed that the man was calculating him with those eyes of his. Finally, after a long awkward silence, the man spoke. "John, do you remember anything at all?" His voice was cautious, tender even. John had the vague feeling it should not be like that.

"John?" the man asked uncertainly. John realized with a jolt that he had not answered. "No," he replied quickly, trying to exact useful information from the man. "Um... where am I? Who are you? Who…who am I?"

The man tilted his head, pondering the questions. "You are John Hamish Watson, though you used to hate your middle name." A faint smile appeared on the man's face as he said that. "You invaded Afghanistan, served as an army doctor about six years ago. But now you're settling down in London, working as a doctor… and… yeah. You didn't have enough to pay for an apartment, so you moved in to 221B Baker Street-that's where you are-with me. And I am… William Sherlock Scott Holmes." The man said his pronounced his own name carefully, looking at John, trying to read his emotions.

John desperately searched his mind for a memory, finding none. At last he shook his head, mystified. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes… I don't remember."

John saw the man who called himself something-something-something Holmes lower his head, his blue-green eyes dimming into a bluish-gray. "Call me Sherlock."

"Sherlock." John corrected awkwardly. "So you're my roommate?"

Sherlock paused hesitantly, then nodded. "I'm a high-functioning sociopath. A consulting detective. I invented the job. You-you used to help me out on the cases. So… yes. You were my roommate."

John gazed at Sherlock in utter disbelief. "You must be joking."

Sherlock looked at John sadly, his eyes light gray. "I'm not."

John snorted. "Do you expect me to believe that you're a sociopath who's also a detective?"

Sherlock ran his fingers through his black curls in frustration. "I'm a detective. A consulting detective. The only one in the world. I invented it. And yes, I'm a high-functioning sociopath; that's my response when someone judges me as a psychopath."

John frowned. "Why would people judge you as a psychopath?"

Sherlock grimaced. "You wouldn't believe me."

John shrugged. "That's for me to decide."

Sherlock bit his lip hesitantly, then opened his mouth to speak, his voice hollow. "I… deduce. I have an excellent brain. I, for example, deduced your military background from your posture and your limp, and your family background from your phone."

John was getting more agitated by the moment. "My limp? I don't limp." To prove his point, he flexed both legs twice easily. He patted his pockets for a phone, but he didn't have one. He knew this Sherlock man was bluffing. _What in the world? He must be lying!_

"Do you really expect me to believe all this?" John finally demanded, glaring up at him.

Sherlock slumped onto the armchair opposite and buried his face in his hands. Finally, he replied quietly: "No, I don't. But it's the truth."

John glared at the man defiantly. "Evidence?"

Sherlock stood up and paced the room, searching wildly around for anything to back up his claim, but there were none. He raised his hands in defeat.

John saw this as his win. "Look, I don't know a thing what's going on here. But I know you're not going to fool me." He stood up, and after a moment of hesitation, speed-walked to the door Sherlock came in and slammed it shut behind him. Sherlock did not move.

-oOo-

Sherlock couldn't move as John spun on his heel and left. He could only feel the warm tears drip from his now light gray eyes as his once most loyal supporter of worst times slam the door in his face as the biggest disbeliever ever.

* * *

 **Because everyone writes amnesia someday :-) tho it's kinda long**

 **And I thought I said to read and REVIEW?!** **But I have EVERYONE to thank for the two hundred something views!**

 **So this is the last I've got in store, so you've either got to REVIEW for more inspirations or see this fic marked as complete :-( But whoever gives me a killer inspiration gets a whole chapter dedicated to them :-) So please please please read and REVIEW, y'all!** **-Ctenophore.D**


	8. Everything I Never Told You

8 Everything I Never Told You

I'm so sorry, John. I should've told you that.

Everything is all my fault. I never should've left an open flame in the kitchen after experimenting with different types of crystals. I never should've whined for you to get me two sugars for my coffee. I never should've ignored you when you said you were going to buy flour for Mrs. Hudson's surprise birthday cake. I should've told you that.

You were so considerate. You remembered Mrs. Hudson's birthday. You went to get me sugar right after coming home from shopping without even complaining. You helped me so much. I should've told you that.

I remember the time you saved me from the psychotic cabbie with aneurism. I was prideful, I was arrogant, yet I was unsure. I could've been the next "serial suicide". You anonymously saved my life. If you didn't turn up, I would've died. I should've told you that.

I remember the time Moriarty kidnapped you and bound you with explosives. He was threatening to kill me, but you big idiot, you- wrapped your arms around his neck and announced you were going down with him. We walked away alive due to a coincidental phone call, but you were the hero that day. My hero. I should've told you that.

I remember the time I flirted with The Woman and made you jealous. Of course, she fascinated me. She was intelligent among people. But you fascinated me more. You were the the kindest, most caring, most helpful person I have ever met. And your intelligence: you weren't that bad yourself. I should've told you that.

I remember the time I first doubted myself, trying to solve the Baskerville case. You were as patient as you could be. You actually regarded me as a friend, the first person to ever do so. That meant so much to me. I should've told you that.

I remember the time I fake-jumped off the Barts hospital and disappeared for two years in your life. You stood by me all the time. You trusted me and never stopped doing so, and that was all that mattered. I should've told you that.

I remember the time you thought we were going to die in the subway full of explosives in the Underground. You were finally putting your sarcasm down, showing the great heart inside you. I would've willingly died there, together with you. I should've told you that.

RIP, John.

I loved you.

I should've told you that.

* * *

 **So this chapter is for THE MOST AWESOME Thilbo4Ever! The idea was actually that one of Sherlock's experiments went sour and John got her in the process, but 1) I have not yet learned chemistry(uh oh, titchy little eighth grader me!), and 2) It's pretty hard for John to get hurt without hurting Sherlock, and 3) John can always heal. So I tweaked it a little bit and made an explosion out of a mistake instead :-) (No offense to the most awesome idea ever!)**

 **So for any of you who don't know: flour with fire can be as harmful as dynamite. So what happened was John had flour and Sherlock left an open flame :-(**

 **So half of the inspiration came from the experiment and half from the title of one of my mom's fav books by Celeste Ng called** ** _Everything I Never Told_** ** _You_** **(DISCLAIMER!) and I adapted the idea. Strongly recommend the book!**

 **I'll probably add some more fics from inspirations of my fav books and poems and songs, etc., and see what I can make out of it :-) But I IMPLORE you all to REVIEW more! I really don't know what to write if I don't know what you want to read!**

 **So read and REVIEW more, y'all! -Ctenophore.D**


	9. Farewell

9 Farewell

"John...?"

But John had already moved, leaping sideways, shielding Sherlock heroically behind his short but strong body. The collision was horrifying, but eerily beautiful at the same time; John flew through the air, his honey-blond hair dyed different shades of gold in the sunset, the bullet followed suit, colliding perfectly in front of Sherlock's stunned figure, both clumsily changing courses. Gravity took hold, and, now molded together, they fell, thudding gently on the pavement.

Stunned, Sherlock knelt down next to the bleeding figure on the floor. He brought out his cell, and as if on autopilot, dialed 999. He gave his current address in shortest version possible, then hung up, kneeling to inspect John's wounds. _Is he still breathing?_ Sherlock thought, panicking. Emotions returned, and Sherlock felt himself taut with worry, his chest heaving, his breathing ragged. He gently reached out a hand in attempt to flip an eyelid, when the brilliant blue eyes opened themselves.

A sense of relief washed over Sherlock as he untied his scarf to press it to John's wound. "What do you think you're doing, John? I didn't think you were such an idiot." Sherlock tried to bring his usual sarcasm into his voice, but he couldn't stop his voice from trembling.

John gave a strained smile, pain written all over his face. His forehead was beaded with sweat, reflecting the golden dusk light. "I saved the most _brilliant_ mind in the whole wide world." He reached up an arm, stroking Sherlock's face once, before it went slightly limp.

Sherlock gripped John's hand and kept it beside his cheek, while John gasped with pain. "No, John. Stay with me. I called for an ambulance. They're coming right now. You are going to live." Sherlock felt a wave of panic as he watched John's face contort with pain. "Stay with me, John!"

John gave his head a small shake. "Sherlock, I… I can't. It was a shot… a shot to the heart. I'm glad I even… didn't die immediately. Even the London… London ambulance wouldn't make it." He strained to straighten himself. Sherlock quickly shifted himself, holding John tenderly in his arms. The blue scarf fell, and Sherlock could see that it was soaked into a dark, almost black crimson. And he knew that there was no hope.

Sherlock fought to keep the tears from falling. He managed to keep a poker face as he muttered the monotone, "It's okay. It's okay."

John's sky-blue irises gazed up into Sherlock's eyes, and he used the last of his strength to grip Sherlock into a fierce hug, squeezing his shoulder blades as he let out quiet moan of pain again. "I fare thee well, Sherlock," he whispered, "It was so nice knowing you. I don't regret any moment of it." And his arms fell limp, a final smile still etched on his face, brilliant blue eyes closed. And Sherlock realized that he would never see John's blue eyes sparkle with delight again, never hear John exclaim "Brilliant!" again, never hear John's laugh of humor again. He would never see John Watson again.

Sherlock slowly let go of John's body, his black Belstaff now dyed a horrifying crimson red. The cold London wind ruffled Sherlock's black curls as he stood up. Sirens sounded from the far end of the street; the ambulance was coming. Sherlock turned, facing the dusk bloodred clouds, and headed out into the darkness as night fell.

He welcomed the darkness. Nobody would see him cry there.

"I fare thee well, John Watson." He whispered into the night.

* * *

 **I'm so sorry it took so long for me to update! School is just such a stress and I** **didn't have time to write for such a long time!**

 **This was another inspiration from Thilbo4Ever! I am starting to fall in love with this very awesome imaginative person :-)**

 **But I have another dedication this time [sob]**

 **This story is also for the most awesome debate coach in the entire history of earth who is going back to America (from China) tomorrow [sob] Once while making up a case for us to flow he actually quoted something from "Professor John Lock" and I was totes happy :-) But I don't think he actually knows the Johnlock we ship :-( God am I going to miss him [sob]**

 **I fare thee well, Chichi. RDFZ debate family loves you. -Ctenophore.D**

 **P.S. I'm sorry if I got the death scene** **wrong :-( I've never watched anybody die of bullet wounds LOL**


	10. Deep Waters

"Help me." Sherlock whispered urgently into the pale figure's ear, stroking her dark wavy hair as she trembled in his embrace. "Help me save John Watson."

Eurus raised her head, peeking into Sherlock's icy blue irises with her teary brown ones, asking wordlessly for trust. Sherlock tried to read emotions in them: fear, sadness, desperation, sorrow. He gripped her slim hands as he stood, silently willing his sister to rise with him.

Unsteadily the white-clad figure rose to her feet with the black-clad one, not saying a word as she started hurrying through the rickety floors of Musgrave Hall, her white slippers thumping slightly on the floor as she tugged Sherlock along.

Sherlock followed. He adjusted his earpiece, pressing a finger to his ear as he let out a hoarse whisper. "John? John, we're coming for you." When only a faint static hum sounded in his ear, he pressed his cupid bow lips together and gripped Eurus's fingers harder. "John isn't replying," he warned tightly, "hurry up."

Eurus picked up her pace slightly, taking small but swift steps across the wooden floor. Sherlock strode closely behind her, heart beating erratically. He would never admit this to anyone, but he was worried about John. He needed desperately to find John, save him, and bring him home. He wasn't the only one who needed John, after all—there was Mrs. H, Molly, Lestrade… and little Rosie. Rosie needed her father; Sherlock needed his friend.

Eurus pushed open the double doors with a shove, and lead Sherlock out, her cloth slippers dampening on the wet grass, small feet skimming across ground. Sherlock could see the beech tree in the distance. His breath shortened. He was almost reaching John. "I'm coming, John," he whispered under his breath, letting the whisper be carried away by the wind.

Sherlock could hear police sirens in the distance, and the red and blue lights blazing in the distance. The rapid beat of his heart slowed slightly as he let out a sigh. The police were here. Everything was alright. John was okay.

Eurus tugged on his fingers. They were at the well. Sherlock crouched, pulling his hands from Eurus's grasp and resting them at the edge of the well. He peered in, trying to see John through the darkness in the well. "John!" Sherlock called. "John, I'm here!" His voice resonated down the well, sending echoes. But John did not reply.

Sherlock found a rope near the well, threaded it around a branch, handed one end to Eurus, and tied another to his waist as he took off his coat, shoes and socks. "I'm going to find John," he told Eurus stiffly, hiding his panic with swift tugs on his sleeves and trousers, "pull when I tell you to."

Eurus nodded, and gripped her end tightly against her chest. As Sherlock lowered himself into the well, he almost laughed nervously at the irony. _Trusting John's captor with his own life. Isn't that ironic._ His feet touched icy water, and his calves were soon soaked. He reached down, grabbing blindly, and felt an arm. _John's arm._

Sherlock held on to John's arm tightly and shouted up. "Eurus, pull!"

To Sherlock's surprise, Eurus's feeble arms had great strength. With a few strong pulls, Sherlock was collapsed on the grass with John's limp figure sprawled over him, breaths heavy, pulse erratic. Lestrade stood over them, peering at Sherlock anxiously.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade cautiously knelt and clumsily shifted John's weight into his arms so Sherlock could stand. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock dusted off himself and wobbled to his feet. "I'm alright… what of my sister?"

"We had to take her away to Sherrinford. Sorry, Sherlock." Lestrade looked at the ground.

"And… what of John?"

Lestrade did not reply.

Sherlock knelt next to the limp wet figure on the grass and felt his already faded pulse. Disbelief was written plain on his face as he clutched the figure close to him, trying to warm John's freezing cold body with his own body warmth. "I was so… sure… I was in time…"

Lestrade touched his forehead and let out a sigh. "You know… you were so close. The water was only over his head. It was only deep enough to just drown him."

* * *

 **Happy Chinese New Year, people out there! It is currently 21:55 in China as I am typing this, and two hours and five minutes until it is officially the Year of the Chicken!**

 **This was an inspiration from S4E3 when Eurus says something like "In all your dreams... deep waters..." and I actually panicked when she was going to drown John. So I made it a tragedy! I do** **apologize for the shitty chapter, though.**

 **I have one more prompt from Thilbo4Ever which I will write out, and another one from Guest which I racked my brains to write but sorry, I can't. I really think it's sort of weird for Sherlock to die at the hands of his best friend, and John is a doctor. I am quite sure he knows his own strength. No offense, though! I don't write Dark!stuff, but it would be a good prompt for that!**

 **The response to guest Mike that I wrote in the A/N (aka previous chapter 10), I directly quote myself:** **I am not sadistic. I simply enjoy a good tragedy where you don't live 'happily ever after' lives. (BORING, Sherlock would say.) Thanks for your support though, and this is based on the BBC series. I do recommend Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's original, though. Even if he is sort of mixed up. It was he who had the original idea, after all.**

 **I'll be in Greece for about ten, eleven days, starting Feb 1st. But I'll try to update one more time before winter vacation ends!**

 **Happy Year of the Chicken, and peace out!**

 **-Ctenophore.D**


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